Nordic Bonds and German Boots
by just.a.dying.writer10
Summary: Nazi Germany captured Denmark on April 9th, 1940. The shortest campaign in WWII. The Danes surrendered to survive. Matthias isn't going down without a fight, not when he's the gateway to the other Nordics. He has to protect them, he just has to.
1. Denmark

Denmark's jaw tightened, and his eyes uncharacteristically darkened as his King only sighed. It was just the two of them in the room at the time, the other guards had scurried away with their orde"You want to roll over and kiss German ass?" The blonde growled rhetorically.

"We can't win this. We need to start preserving lives Matthias."

"This stupidly obvious ploy is just a way to get to the other Nordics, we have a duty to protect them."

The older king just sighed again. His old eyes just bored into the blue North Sea ones that burned with fury. The nation paced, and his red coat swished back and forth as he muttered.

"Worry isn't a good look on you. Smile, you won't be hurt too bad." Christian said with a bitter and empty happiness. The blaze of anger was momentary paused as his gaze unconsciously wondered to the yellow star of David on his King's clothes, something that wouldn't go unpunished once the Nazi came.

"And my Jews then? What do you think will happen to them?" He countered impatiently, both already knowing the answer.

"It's the price we have to pay." His eyes never wavering from the fierce Viking gaze that would make even the mightiest nations cower. His mouth opened to yell but the soft spoken but firm voice cut him off.

"I am your king, and you have your orders."

The heavy boots that had walked with long strides across the floor, as well as the door slam echoing, was indication that Denmark had left. The royal closed his eyes and set his hands to pray, because by God did they need help.

* * *

The plan of neutrality and low security worked for a while, a silent and futile hope that the Nazi's plan didn't include the Scandinavian country. The topic was never mention again and instead sat like an elephant in the room every time the personified nation and its boss saw each other.

But even unspoken, the issue was battled out in their eyes and the subtext of every word. Denmark neither slept nor eat like he used too. The stress and paranoid of his people took a toll and resulted in the heavy slouch in his shoulders and the bags under his eyes. The glimmer of mischief and boisterous spirt never left him thankfully.

And now the day, the day the inevitable attack finally happened, the glint turned to a roaring fire. The streets were panicked, everyone looked to their king whose hands couldn't quite hold in the tremors as he spoke calmly. It would be a compromise, no violence and no surrender. The tension and uncertainty radiated off of them, but they listened to the only soothing sound among the chaos of marching boots and German spit.

The Nazis came into view as their final battle within broke out. The hate was boiling over as Denmark ran his calloused hands through his wild hair and his red eyes lacking sleep was restless and wide.

'We have to fight! We are the only thing protecting the Nordics from the Third Reich!"

"You care too much Denmark. Your loyalties to the rest will get us killed." The mortal man said with a monotone reason. The Monarch was out of steam, out of fight and the pounding of Nazi feet entering his country was in rhythm with the pounding of the blood in his head.

Meanwhile the self-proclaimed King of Scandinavia was roaring, his inner Viking was coming back in full force, a wave of passion that his people no longer processed. The surge of protective instinct for his family, the one he failed in the past, was raging from every terse movement.

"WE ARE VIKINGS DANM! WE DON'T JUST GIVE UP!"

The volume shook the room, nay the whole house as the echoes of German grew closer. His fingers itched to have his axe in his hands, so he could fight or do something to stop the advancement. Meanwhile his boss looked unfazed and unmoved by the volatile outburst, only sad. He looked at the nation, a man out of his time and long past his glory days.

"We are not Vikings Mathias. Not anymore, I'm afraid," He said with a touch of nostalgia, as if he too was wishing they still were. "And you love the Nordics too much. We need to think of your people. You're not a human, you're Denmark."

The silence was prolonged, the things unsaid were heartbreaking and Christian hoped it would be enough to convince his nation to settle down, knowing well that eventually the anger would lead to a unitary revolt in the citizens. He watched with a hawk's eyes as the younger seeming man sagged into the chair, the stress finally bringing him down.

"No." He said quietly, the German were at his gates, his skin barely tingling in physical response. "Not good enough."

And before anyone could protest, the fight was back, and he was blazing like Icarus. The door slammed in his wake, and only a weak hand was raised in a retracted protest.

"Your people have given in already, why haven't you?"

* * *

The regular Danish monitors of the boarders were in a hesitant stance between surrender and support as their nation stood boldly ahead. Beads of sweat were barely noticeable on his forehead, having run there in record time. The ports harbored unwelcomed ships and guns ready with itchy trigger fingers in control.

He stood with a cool smile, a battle tactic to show no fear, as he held his axe in a loose but twitchy hold. The Danes exchanged distressed looks of uncertainty, guns feeling heavy and cumbersome in their hands.

"It's ok boys. Kiss the dirt and throw your guns aside." He said casually with a genuine tone lacking sarcasm or condescension. The silence sign of relief left their mouth as they followed the order of their Royal King and nation. They scuttled back to the safety of their post and laid belly down behind the barricades.

"Hallo Dänemark." A booming voice greeted respectfully, a hint of remorse already shining through. It was meant to be a sign of willingness, a sign of amicability. The blonde German, the real Germany himself that stood front and center on the boarder, made one fatal error.

"Du taler dansk her, ikke din beskidte tysk." _We speak Danish here, not your dirty German_

Germany cocked his head as faint rough barks of prideful laughter rippled in the barricade. A few worldlier Germans grew red in the face and sharpened their posture with dignity. The embodiment of the Nazis still looked uncomfortable under the harsh stare and could only guess the insult that had come out. Nonetheless, he tried to diplomacy.

"Denmark, we just need passage to Norway through your land, no harm will come to your people if we have your cooperation." He reasoned and the smirk on the older nation's lips twitched humorlessly.

"Du truer dem, du truer mig." He said but the meaning was lost on the invader. The confusion on their faces was enough evidence and reason for him to scoff and roll him eyes, much to their anger. "Are you literate enough for English? You threaten them, you threaten me."

The army digested the words in stony silence.

"Now get out." If Germany wasn't Germany, maybe the nervousness would be more apparent than just the audible hard swallow and hesitant tongue.

In all honestly, Germany wasn't too keen on his boss's ideals. The Nazism being a separate issue he was opposed to, the Nordic states never showed contempt for him when he had fallen after WWI, never fought nor aided him. But he could respect their neutrality, even if it infuriated his leaders. They weren't the reason for his post-WWI downfall and he saw no reason to drag them into something like this. However, the commander saw fault and spoke for him instead.

"You are a small country Denmark, you can't deny us entry for long. We were merciful before because of your Arian background, but we can only give you so many chance." The armed and uniformed military man boasted with a wave of arrogance that only antagonized the nation. "We'd hate to hurt one of our own."

"I'd rather die in battle than be compared to you racist filth."

The gunshot rang out as he finished. The smooth slide to left dodged it gracefully and he spun his axe in his hand before running into battle. They had been expecting a quiet surrender, intel told them that the Danes weren't looking for a fight. Nothing told them that Denmark himself would be an issue.

They charged, a few passing him and running to the city center much to his distain. Firing openly at him, the bullets grazed him but missed as he blocked them with his axe or moved with expertise.

The cowering soldiers were renewed in fight from their country, feeling the resolve as well, and fought back as best they could. The scattered Nazis came in by the truckloads by land and the few dispatched Danes took them head on.

Meanwhile Matthias was alone. He cut and slaughtered fleets of them. Having taken a gun, not quite ditching the axe yet, he took cover and fired. The Germans had reformatted as tires squealed inside city walls and gunshots echoed.

The platoon of 20 was dwindling to 16 by the first hour. They were starving off them in a shootout but the German's advanced quickly, waiting them out on Ludwig's orders to reduce casualties.

Soon the bubbling ache of fight returned, and he charged out on an impulse, moving them back 5 meters and 12 men down. In return for the attack, he had a burn on his arm when a bullet scraped past and a tear in his coat.

The city wasn't faring well either, outmanned and out matched for weaponry, the king was reeling in the militia and letting the Nazi soldiers who bled though the defense, take over. It was a losing battle, everyone but Denmark was accepting it.

There was a graze near his ear and a sizable chuck missing from the side of his legs by the second hour. It was him and 7 others left. The ship towering over in harbors, lazily waiting for the command to obliterate. Jumpers were sent out from planes that bellowed above with a spray of bullets accompanying it. Copenhagen was being captured by the end. In various parts of the country, bodies were already being stacked while the Invasion of Norway was already beginning.

Finally, there was a cold denial that came with his people's surrender. The seeds of bitter hatred would soon grow into a rebellious were in him by the fourth hour. His original platoon had surrender and only watched as Denmark refused to accept defeat. He was worn out and weak, the occupation taking a toll as well as the aching burn from his actions that could no longer be reflective of hi people.

His gun was depleted of ammo and his left shoulder had been shot, reducing him to wield his axe in his nondominant right hand. All guns were aimed at him in a circle, he bared teeth and snarled.

"Denmark, surrender. Your people have already, it's over." It was the final sixth hour.

"I'm not a vatnisse, _a sissy,_ like you, doing as your stivnakket, _pigheaded,_ idiot boss tells you too." That earned a shot to the stomach, but he didn't stop. His accent growing thicker and thicker as his home burned. "I fight for what's right or die trying!"

His axe swung wildly with a strength he shouldn't have had but did. It slashed through their uniforms and into their chest. Bullets rained sporadically, some missing some burying deep inside him.

Other had taken out pocket knives for the close combat and lunged at him. Their sharp blade caught his wrist and side mostly. But he never stopped, fighting and fighting until it was just Germany. The harbored ship having left for Norway, the city well managed by the occupiers.

"Please Denmark, Matthias, it's over, the ships left for Norway already." The hysteria and pleading were edging at his voice as he struggled to survive the horror that was Denmark. "Please, just surrender."

The falling nation only laughed and spit blood to the ground "Over my dead body. And if you so much as lay a finger on Norge, I swear I will kill every last one of you bigoted lunatics." Blood was dripping down his face and his weakened left arm was pressed to one of his many bullet wounds.

By now Germany looked stressed when Denmark's eyes allowed his vison not to slide in and out of focus. Denmark watched the man shift from foot to foot with his gun held tremblingly. Taking his chance, Denmark stumbling forward swinging the heavy weapon hoping to cut the German. His movements pulling and stretching the punctured skin, setting his whole body ablaze.

"DID I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR! YOU HURT ANY ONE OF THEM AND I WILL KILL YOU!" Such fury hadn't even been used in the losing battle of his more peaceful people. He was like Icarus, burning up all in vain. He always knew his people wouldn't fight, not yet at least. But his family, the loyalties Christian feared, they had a chance. He fought for them. Tooth and nail, blood and foaming spit dripping from his mouth like a deranged animal. Germany dodged and swerved, his gun puffing out bullets that missed. His blue eyes widened as the swift axe cut off a strand of his yellow blonde hair, he formulated a plan quick.

"Norway has been invaded and captured already!" He yelled the half lied but it worked all the same. For the first time in hours, the axe grew lax in Denmark's bloodied hands. His jaw had blood drying in the corner as it went slack with shock. His paling face lightened 10 shades and he suddenly felt the pain his hope and determination had been keeping at bay.

He started at Germany with such dead eyes and almost innocent confusion. "You're lying."

Ludwig's aim fell a fraction at the haunting display of raw emotion. A military part of him hissed at him for not shooting while he had a chance but it all felt dishonorable.

To him, his whole war felt dishonorable. The laws and discrimination were bias and unfair. He had shoved down his personal distain and replaced it with feeling of duty and loyalty to his people, to his boss. Every time he went against Hitler's order, he felt the burn inside. All nations got that when they let the human side be too prominent.

Staring at the broken human in front, he couldn't bring himself to do more damage, not to such a worthy opponent and honorable man.

"Es war meine Aufgabe, sie zu beschützen." _It was my job to protect them_

Denmark whispered hoarsely with Nordic inflection accenting the German words.

German felt an apologize play at his lips at the sounds of his language. It was built in his heart, climbing out with every breath and tugged up his throat, past the lump that compressed him to the point of tears. He wanted to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness. Even when Poland had been invaded, he was still yielding to his boss's dictating thumb, blindly denying that he was on the wrong side of history.

Instead of begging or lowering his weapon all the way, his people's need for violence was diminished once the capital had been conquered, a final bang rang out. A strange sound considering the echoing crack had been absent from the chaotic noises for quite some time.

"Es tut Norge weh. Mach, dass es aufhört." _It hurts Norge. Make it stop._

Denmark only knew it had happened when the heartache had turning into a real one. The blood pounding in his ears, as well as the screeching voice telling him he had failed once again, had been enough to block out the world. His final words had been weird on his tongue and foreign to his ears. Later, he'd realize the exoticness came from the fact he was speaking German, the language of power in his country and the final sign of defeat.

Nonetheless, the growing sickly smell of fresh iron was mixing with the smell of rot from the dead and browning dried blood that caked his body. The lemony hair and the skittishly wide blue eyes were the last real thing he saw as the patch of crimson blood stretched at a steady rate from his chest to his entire torso.

The last look of shock on the German was somewhat worth the pain, he thought bitterly as he crashed to the ground, about as motionless as his favorite tool that was right beside him. The shock and tears that glistened in his eyes was almost convincing enough to make him believe the German was genuinely sorry. Almost.

The darkness that wrapped itself around him was cold and numbing but not unwelcomed. He felt cowardly for letting himself slip into oblivion so easily, for letting Norway getting taken down when he still had a brotherly duty to do. If he had been awake, he concluded later, he probably would have cried.

Meanwhile in the real world, German had sunk to his knees with a chocked gasp as his commander gave a bloody tooth smile. His pistol still smoking as he kept its steady potion up a moment longer.

"I thought he'd never shut up." The man joked before tossing his bangs back with a laugh. "C'mon now. Norway's people are putting up quite the fight."

The man brushed back, utterly unaware to German's breathless shock, and sauntered to the docks. He gave a glance behind him as saw caerulean eyes glued to the limp coated figured on the floor, blood pooling under it.

"Germany!" He barked and said nation was pulled from stupor. "Let's go, we have to get Norway to surrender. Forgot about the stubborn dummkopf. We told him that immediate surrender would leave him unscathed. Now look at him, surrendered and half dead, it's his own fault."

Something in Ludwig broke, but Germany still had a job. So, he swallowed his regret and followed along like a good soldier. The echoing sounds of boots on the Danish ground were that last sound Denmark heard for a while.

* * *

Nation never died really. Faded, yes. Disappeared, yes. But dying was an art only humans and animals knew. Bullet wounds, burns and broken bones were easy to mend and not a real health concern. But even a nation will succumb to something with 5 broken ribs, a cracked sternum and 26 bullet holes, not including the one that nearly pierced his heart and the few that grazed him too close for comfort.

Denmark was on house arrest during his time under the German empire. The royal family had been moved to exile, all except Christian who was steady and prideful. Most of his citizens were fearful however. The German front was in control of trade and media. Their cooperation was a result of blackmail and dread of an economic collapse. Next to no one liked it, especially since their personification nation was still under lock and key. But the Danes were untied to protect their Jewish population, a fact that kept Denmark from dying too.

He had woken up 4 days later, tears on his cheeks and no one to console him. Norway was being occupied for real by then, and he couldn't do much about it. Weak and drifting in and out of sleep, he remained alone in a house for a while. Years to nation are fast and more like months. The physical toll was long and grueling, especially as the German's pressure to relinquish power grew.

Germany was off in another country or training; the memory of Denmark was still haunting him. But he returned once resistances were blossoming from the original seeds of contempt. He returned to skeptical Danes with turned up noses and exasperated Gestapo in 1943. The previously injured, still injured really, nation had color in his cheeks and a more placid disposition. His simple request was innocently asked, and the sea blue eyes were still clouded and loss of spark and fervor as they once were. The dullness around him was reason enough to scare Germany into granting his wish, the visit to a certain Swede, in secret hopes would giving back life.

A single telegram was sent out to the neutral state who answered with a false nonchalant. He took a car and some painkillers to get there, alone and unarmed. The Nazi's had deemed him as a weak failure who wouldn't try anything. They weren't really wrong.

"Hey Sweden." He said tiredly when the front door opened. His reply was a hug that pressed on his wounds. He hissed in pain and the ever silence younger brother frowned even more.

Sweden lead him inside and made tea. He took stock of Denmark and compared it to what he had heard. The 6-hour struggled between Matthias and the Third Reich, a photo of a limp and dead looking body was included in the papers.

"I thought you'd be healed by now." The answer was an amused smile and a purposefully aloof shrug, and he pressed on "You don't look good. Even Norway is in better shape."

At the mention of Norway, the china set rattled and Sweden cursed at his own words. Tears were brimming in both their eyes and they looked away. It was true, a nasty black eye and a wrapped chest of yellow and green bruises were that was left 3 years later. No one wanted to point out why neither were healing well.

"I'm glad he's doing well." Denmark said honestly and mustered a smile that must have looked like a grimace. There was a pause and a storm brewing in his eyes "I need a favor."

"Shoot."

"The German forces are getting impatient at their denied request for power. My Jews are getting worried and I need to start evacuations." The unspoken question was blunt, and the Swede's eyes narrowed. His glasses reflecting making his presence even more menacing.

"Please Berwald, I'm begging you. I couldn't save Norway or my own people but…" His voice trailed off from the hot sob clawing at him, but he regained composure. "But you can, please."

The silence was tense and heavy as they stared down, swirls of thought and sadness coating their eyes respectably

'I'll do it. Send 'em over, and I won't 'em turn away."

This time real tears watered his eyes as pain started to ricochet in him, something was happening back home that made him double over in pain. He saw white as his wounds reopened at once and slick blood spilled. His hands gripped Sweden's arms and the last thing he saw were riots and protest. Nazi soldiers yelling at his freedom fighter, and then watching their face fall as they got shot one by one. Flashes of people escaping on boats and Swedish citizen's taking in his people, his government too. The Swede himself hovering as he collapsed.

A dopey smile was etched into his face as he blinked slowly and weakly. His brother's swift moment barely registered to him, but he felt the warmth of blood on his body hit the icy cold air as his wool pea coat was removed. Haziness too over and the voices echoed around, the comforting chants lulling him asleep.

"Det kommer bli bra. Det skal nok gå." _It will be fine. It will be ok._

* * *

The next time he woke up, he was in chains. A cough was deep in his lungs as his government had collapsed too. But his wounds had healed faster, a sign that his people were taking charge and healing.

A few times someone came down with water and food. He grew skinnier, but he took in all in stride. The more angered the Nazi's got, the more resistance he people were showing. After a week or so, he was let out. His chest still riddled with holes and dents, but he took a painfully big breath of the Danish air.

People were on strike, power was cut, and water was restrained as marchers yelled and picketed. The Germans yelled and raised gun, but they too, took the violence and abuse in stride. A few Germans, faces are red as a swastika, looked to his smiling face for help but he only shrugged and joined in.

He saw their veins pop with frustration and skin scrunched up like a wet paper bag. But in the end, not much happened on either side. The most important work was done in secret and he was forever grateful for it.

A few mishaps happened along the way still. And air raid gone wrong killed over 100 innocence a school. But 18 tortured people went free. A give and take, a comprise. His king would sit proudly on his horse, like Arthur's stories about the days of Camelot, with a yellow star tucked somewhere on him, and parade around town. Matthias now saw why the not so surrender was key to their survival and aid in the war. When he was finally able to live in more decent condition, all they needed was an exchange of looks to understand. Aging pools of blue smiling proudly at the vast and forever young sea colored eyes that held a sheepish apologize, no regret however.

He purposefully kept out of Norway's business and did everything to avoid the topic. It hurt too much. Thought of the Kalmar union and long violent past of him going with his leader's order to reign his brothers back in. He was like Germany back then, skillful and sturdy but lacking will.

Fighting his family wasn't something he really wanted. Covered it up with false cheer and playful tactics. And in the end, he still failed both sides, the guilt was sheened over his body in a way they had all learned to ignore and adapt to. But with news that his loss was helpful in Norway's invasion was the final straw for him.

A part of him wanted to see how the personified country was faring, how the fighting had wounded him, and the bitter Holocaust was taking its toll. He was so lucky in comparison, at least his people were. The wounds that left him as swiss cheese refuse to heal all the way while he was still occupied. Instead he walked around like a mummied man, white bandages over his torso and into his shoulder. The smaller cuts, burns and bruises were fading nicely, he'd have a few thin pink scars by the end.

Perhaps the worse injury was Iceland seceding 25 years early. He felt it before he heard about it. He could feel the emptiness inside of him, cold and left him bedridden for a day. His King sent a gracious and sincere telegram in congratulation to the newly independent country before visiting him.

"Iceland-"

"Left. I know."

The weighted silence wasn't tense just filled with unspoken words.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. Or his really. He needs to do what's best for his people."

They both internally cringe at the comment. Christian looked at the shivering lump of blankets on the bed and sighed. Neither pointing out that Denmark risked it all for family while Iceland left while they were for sure to let him go.

"I'm sure that Iceland wasn't so keen on the idea but instead went for what his boss told him to do."

"Sure."

The only sounds were the street cars and chaos outside, a twice a month occurrence nowadays. Give or take a violent kerfuffle every now and then. Denmark shivered again, the hollow feeling making his whole-body sting with freeze.

"Sent this out." He pulled out a red tinted bandaged hand that held a rolled-up telegram.

The king nodded wordlessly and took in, choosing to carefully not comment on the blood.

 _Dear Iceland, **STOP** I heard you finally grew a pair and left **STOP** I'm proud of you Ice, no matter what I've always been proud **STOP** Never forget that, ok **STOP** I hope you stay well out of them war and you prospect under independence **STOP** Sincerely Denmark _

Denmark wouldn't know of the fat tears that rolled down Iceland's face when he read it. It was formal, lacking the hand drawn smiley face or a misspelt word. And he didn't write 'with love' either.

Icelanders cheered, but he let a tear falls volcanic ash.

* * *

The war progressed but Denmark was quick to ignore it, trying and failing not to think about Norway. His wounds characteristically still weren't healing. Not while the catalyst was still occupying his land. Instead, it became routine to have the binding gauze wrapped around his chest, extending to each fingertip. Always tinged with a weak flow of blood and pointedly ignored by everyone who saw it.

Sweden never visited, not ready to risk his people's safety for seeing Matthias. The slightly shorter older brother understood of course, couldn't complain since Sweden was already being generous by taking in his Jews. But it only added to the emptiness that Iceland's departure caused. Constantly cold, goosebumps textured his pale skin no matter where he was. He felt like a hollow shell of the Viking he was, something weak and old instead of his vigorous self.

It was the silent nights and uneventful days of his people's discontent and the suffocating hold of the Nazis that made him think. Did the others feel like this when Kalmar was in motion, unsatisfied and uncomfortable under his rule? Was he no better than Germany?

That thought alone, the genocide and mass murder, the fighting and compulsive need for dominance, the eerie parallels he saw to himself, those ideas made him threw up a few times.

But mostly, he lived. The resistance went on, ranging from work strikes to power outages in the capital. The Germans grew frustrated, people died because of it obviously, it was only par for the course. It was sharp pains in his chest or a dull ache in his legs. But the pain always brought a smile to his face, it meant change was coming. Every time it seemed too unbearable, he thought about the Norge, the true fighter.

It was no secret he had it worse, the holocaust there and the more controlling German demand. Maybe that's why Denmark liked causing trouble, it drew attention away from his brother. His people were more than willing to fight those who stood in their way, the amount was irrelevant. It was a trait both the people and the nation had, it bled through and prompted each other.

And then it ended, the war was over. A conference in Sweden was called, Jewish collection and economic meeting. The guilt that had festered was making it hard for him to go. He didn't want to face them, not with his thoughts still swirling and the sadness of his people in him. His king, the old man was tired and much too happy to ruin the moment with a debate, took his decline at face value and sent a telegram to their expats.

The wounds were quick to knit themselves together, a painful process coupled with the cold he was fighting left him exhausted and sickly. Nonetheless, he dismissed all ailment and helped to rebuild his country. Houses needed to be rebuilt and his collapsed government needed reform.

It wasn't until the conference ended did the pain start to take its toll. He felt it as a stabbing pain to the chest, right near his already tender bullet hole. The anguish of the taken ones and the still tinging fear of the ones returning unscathed. He collapsed in his own room, cold and hot with Icelandic emptiness and the hasty return of his scarred people. He felt their grief and hurt, their joy at the sight of home. The emotions made him writhe on the carpet and chocked his breaths. Tears threaten to spill at his eyes as a new pair of hands found him. His vision tunneled, and his ears pulsed with his heartbeat, but he still heard the hazy voice of Finland, real or otherwise.

"He's in here!"

"F-Finland?"

He croaked before hissing as blood glued gauze were pulled from his skin. The Finnish man muttered a pleading sorry and Denmark could only nod and suppress a whine. He barely registered the hurried footsteps as the fever over took him. A collapsed government, failing economy and the fallout of a dictator was taking its toll while his previous war wounds scrambled to heal. It was all finally taking much for him. He saw the blinding light but didn't shy away. His baby Kristina was there, her hand out stretched for her papa to take, a smile on her ruby red lips.

But before his own hand could take her, the light was shut off to darkness, a sleep not death. A dark, cowardly alternative to facing them, a way to force him through it all. He didn't feel so strong anymore.

* * *

"Mister, Swede? Is ta-san gonna wake up soon?"

"Dunno."

"Of course, he will wake up! He's a fighter, older than all of us!"

"He's a stupid fool who doesn't know how to quit."

They all were frowning around Denmark's bed as the nation laid with raspy breaths. His hair was sweat soaked, and a cool towel was placed to combat the fever. In less than 10 words, Sweden managed to explain the situation. He was too human, too independent from his people and so the fever of a lifetime. The guilt wasn't something the Danes sympathized with and thus ate him up. Accompanying that was the quick but repercussive regenerative properties of his immortality, it alone left him weak.

Sweden was safe through the war, a bit lighter and cold from the refugees who returned home. Finland was no worse for wear either. He spent his days with fragile peace and a 5 years' worth of anxiety attacks.

Norway, was doing ok all things considering. His wounds were at a minimum, fading already but a dull ache from his people made him sore and throbbing. He had grown gaunt and weary, worried over his brother's current state didn't help either. Iceland, taller and a year older now, was just nervous and wishing he could shoulder his ex-ruler's pain.

After their brother's collapse, they all helped to put Matthias back together, a rare moment of their humanity coming into play without international repercussions. They saw his skinny bullet riddled chest and the long scars from burn and blade, from that terrible 6 hours that lasted longer than it should have.

All of it, it was so futile and silly to them. Without a proper Danish explanation, they couldn't fathom why he didn't just let listen to his boss, avoid the fever and the wounds. He could have easily let the invasion mark him with a 5-year papercut rather than lethal injuries.

But for now, they waited. Norway sitting in a chair whist fighting off his cold, Iceland pacing and Finland resting on Sweden's lap, a rare occasion in itself. Berwald's hands running up and down the fragile nation's back and lazily petting his hair while Finland nuzzled close to the Swede, sighing in relief when he heard the deep echoes of his best friend's heart beats.

No one spoke much, a few words from each of them every so often. But they were all just happy to see each other ok, no words were needed. After 2 hours of waiting, a muffled groan and a flutter of eyelids made they stir.

Blinding lights and 4 hovering shadows were the first thing he saw. All frowning with various degrees of tears brimming in their eyes.

"Gave us quite a scare."

"Wha?"

The guilt coming back like a tidal wave pulling forward and he broke down in tear, the fever taking hold as well. Strong arms gripped him and pulled him up as he took gasping breath with every sob that wracked his body. He knew he must have looked pretty pathetic, crying like a child when nothing bad had really happened. Ditching the meeting and staying in bed when he really should have been out with his population, helping them heal. He knew Norway was the corner, rolling his eyes or getting his stuff to leave, he was so danm sure of it.

In fact, his scrunched-up eyes refused to open and see the empty spaces where his family were once standing. The glimmer of hope that chided him into thinking they had stayed, was dashed by the prospect of their overlapping voices yelling at him for being weak. God it was a spiraling thought, comparing himself to the Norge who had strength to be here, even after the holocaust that took place and the prolong fighting in the beginning.

They should be mad, furious at him at his weaknesses. The silence was deafening as he waited anxiously for them to scream or throw something at him, prove they were there after all. They should hate him, he thought that much, but at least he wouldn't be alone with the pain and his thoughts.

"Denmark."

Oh, he thought as hyperventilation did nothing to make his tear stop, they were still here.

"Denmark, just open your eyes, look at us. We're not mad, I promise." It was Norway who was speaking so gently, the crying nation paused a moment in disbelief that he was being so soft with him.

His blinked slowly and hesitantly, big doe eyes stared at them with tears spilling out but locking gaze with them. They looked…concerned and scared. Norway had intertwined his finger with the bandaged hand and absent mindedly play with it. His greyish blue eyes were vulnerable and sad, not icy and aloof like always when he brushed off Denmark's affections or protection.

Sweden even had glistening tear tracks on his face and slacken jaw, a look of horrified shock was on his usually emotionless face as he held tightly to Finland.

"Why are you all so sad," He looked at the tallest and shortest nation who were wrapped in each before cocking his head in confusion. "Y-you weren't hit too bad right?"

His stare broke to his former charge who was snot nosed and weeping. "Icy, congrats." He hiccupped a bit, the fever making jump from emotions so quickly.

And finally, Norway, he smiled a bit, trying not to look so forlorn. "I'm so sorry Norway, I couldn't hold them back. Took a few bullet holes to figure I wasn't strong enough."

That statement alone fit all the pieces together for the rest of the Nordics. He wasn't worried about himself, his people yes, but Matthias wasn't worry about his own condition. He felt guilt, sorrow too but not worried.

"You're an idiot." Norway said seething, and everyone tensed up apprehensively. "You think we're mad at you because your boss didn't want to fight!? MAD THAT YOU'RE HURT?!"

There was a tense pin drop silence that followed. Denmark's shaky breath were silence as his eyes flicked around in thought. His dry lips parted ever so hesitantly as he chose his words carefully.

"I'm your big brother."

That threw them for a loop. His voice was soft and slow, sadness dripping like honey. He didn't meet their eyes, their watery eyes, but instead looked at his crisp white gauze. Norway's hand absent from his.

"S-so?"

"You're not supposed to see your big brother cry," A tear plunked onto his arm. "I'm supposed to protect you, whether my boss agreed or not. I knew my people gave up, but I wasn't ready to. Not when I could still save you 4." He sniffed at looked up with sea blue pools of worry and self-hate. "But I failed and I'm so sorry."

There was another beat of silence, the heaviness once of his chest was gone and he felt his wounds pressing together and skin actually growing as his monologue healed his soul. He didn't expect warmth to press into him. 4 pairs of arms wrapped themselves around him and nuzzled his aching chest gently.

"All this pain, just for us." Finland's voice of disbelief was muffed but audible.

"You didn't fail, not at all." Sweden's face was tucked into the crook of Denmark's neck and he felt the vibrations of Sweden's gentle voice.

"We're sorry we weren't there for you." Iceland said, a sniffle still present.

Norway had yet to say something, still snuggled close to his older brother like the rest of them. He had played the war conservatively, the only wounds on his body were symbols of the injuries of his people. The opposite of the loud mouth nation, he actively avoided the fight himself, opting to find work on evacuations and resistant movement. The mere notion that the less effected country was more inflicted with battle wounds made him want to scream. Wanted to yell at how unfair it all was, how he should not have burdened their safety on himself. But instead he picked his head off from where it laid on Denmark's chest and cupped his cheeks with both hands, both feeling the heat of the fever and seeing the emptiness in his eyes.

"You fought like a true Viking and we love you for it. All you have to do now, is forgive yourself."

The roaring cry of renewed tears cascaded down his hollow cold cheeks. They were hot tears of contentment and joy that no one had left him, that he was loved by his family. The ache was replaced with the swell of pride that gushed in him as all of it, Kalmar and conflicts and the recent World War II, it was all forgiven by them. He was at peace with himself now too, a feeling that gave him strength and life in his eyes again.

They stayed huddled together, tired and sleepy from the exhalation of crying. And by morning, his holes had been patched with love and healed over to be smooth scars. The war was finally over for Denmark.


	2. Sweden (Uncomplete)

_A/N- OK, so this is incomplete but I wanted to get it out since it's been collecting dust on the drive. I seriously have no idea how to finish it. I hopefully didn't just regurgitate the first chapter too much and the historical inaccuracies weren't too bad. Just for reference, I used the Midsummer Crisis, The Continuation War, flashback to the Great Depression and Schrodinger's Cat, and briefly mentioned Iceland's independence. However, the truth was stretched and exaggerated for the sake of a story and Wikipedia was legit my only source so sorry and enjoy :]_

Sweden felt his heartstrings twitch at the news. The paper with frontline news, bold inky words and a greyscale photo attached. **Danish compliance but Denmark fights** , continue on page 12.

His fingers can't move fast enough as his breath hitched. He felt the strangely sporadic beats of his heart. Eyes scan the paper, hoping it's all lies but he saw the smudgy body surrounded by dirt and grime, deathly still.

He swallowed shakily before rushing to his boss. His coffee spilling and dishes rattling but he's already rushing down the hallway, too busy to notice the brown liquid saturating the carpet.

Icy blue eyes were wild as he busted into his King's office. The aging man had his head cocked to the side with furrowed eyebrows.

"Berwald, are you alright son?"

Suddenly the words had dissolved like sugar on his tongue and he can only hold a shaky hand up, the rumpled newspaper trembling slightly well.

Old cloudy eyes squinted for a second, skimming the page for keywords that might have provoked a reaction from his nation. 'Denmark', 'invasion' and 'injury' were the probable reason, he concluded with a sigh.

"I can imagine you're upset." He said carefully, his gaze met the floor instead of the piercing blue ones hovering above. "However, there isn't much we can do. We are still neutral."

It suddenly bewildered him as to why he was in his boss's office like this, it wasn't like the King could do much or even offer much comfort. Hell, he was usually fighting his fellow Nordic, the Kalmar Union and various wars still rang strong in his mind. A blush crept up his face and he squeezed his hand into a fist to steel his body.

"I…'m sorry to 'ave interrupt yer breakfast sir." He bowed slightly before turning on his heel to leave.

"Wait, Sweden."

"Sir."

"…I know Matthias is like a brother to you for better or worse. It must be hard seeing him wounded." He added with soft eyes that bored into the Swede's blue-coated back. A gloved hand rested on the door jam and the King entertained the idea that his stoic nation might actually respond.

Instead, the fingers squeezed the wood before letting go and swiftly moving down the hall. A few scant tears rolled down and dripped onto the paper, the image swirling around into a translucent paper with scattered words. But no newspaper was necessary to tell the younger brother that things were only gonna get worse.

* * *

He was informed even before he asked.

"You can't go visit him. You're too flighty still."

"Hmm?"

There was a meeting; generals, the King, and a few other officials were gathered around a table. He took up leaning heavily against the wall with his usual scowl. His hat was hung low on his face and his hair covered up what his hat didn't. It had been a little more than 10 months since Norway and Denmark were taken, invaded and humiliated

Norway had been allowed a personal call after imprisonment and Sweden clung to the phone like a lifeline. It was brief, more of a reassuring update than a conversation. He sounded tired and bored mostly, admitted to a few cuts and bruises. The silence was prolonged when the taller nation asked about Denmark. Norway sniffled, and his voice was thick when he replied with a casual 'Dunno'.

He daydreamed about that moment being different, especially in boring war meeting. He imagined Norway smirking from the other end of the line even with a busted lip, rolling his eyes despite the black and blue bruise over his left one, and saying that their brother was already back to shouting across the border like always.

"He said you can't go see Denmark or Norway for that matter," Gustaf said quietly, the prince still cowered a bit under the Swede's cold eyes like when Gustaf was a child.

An insult and fighting shout ached in his throat but the memory of Denmark's dead eyes, still dazed and open on the newspaper cover, made him reconsider. He steeled his glare a bit longer before letting it go and settling back into the wall.

A breath of relief was exhaled among the older men and they continued. Papers shuffled, and Sweden daydreamed again.

"Now, more importantly, if we don't allow German troops through, we risk invasion." The King said gravely, and no one disagreed.

"Wait, yer actually considering helping the damn Nazis?" Daydreaming was put on hold for him. "They are killing Jews and oppressing other countries."

"Sweden, it's not that simple. We must keep our people safe, and by doing this, we are promised safety from invasion."

Is this how Denmark felt? Sweden couldn't help but wonder as anger radiated off of his him and soaked the air with tension. He knew this was an unwinnable argument, an unwinnable war, but his tales of old made him want to fight the impossible.

"This isn't right. I have no problem fighting you on this." He fumed, and a few people grew warily the prospect of their personified nation turning on them just like...

Denmark, it was always him, Berwald thought with a dark chuckle. No one wanted the detachment to snowball into that. No one even liked that screw-up, he insulted internally but it made sharp, scowling pangs in his heart.

"I'll resign Berwald." Everyone paused. "I know you hate the Nazis and I know you're wrapped up in a personal aspect of it but if you fight us on this, I will resign." He said heavily, something akin to Christian X wearily looks before the invasion.

And just like the events nearly a year earlier, the personified nation left it alone, sinking just below the surface. However, this time there would be no fighting. He stormed down the halls and voices didn't call back. He heard a vaguely intriguing question fade into the silence when he left, "Does he know yet?".

He wasn't sure who asked or what it meant. Instead, he chose to ignore the whole situation and let his eyes glanced at the clock, begging for the clock to strike 6. Finland called once a week now, it was slowly becoming a welcomed distraction to his cowardice. Since the raising conflict versus Russia, his calls had been coming less frequent and shorter from pure exhalation on his end though.

In addition, Norway called once every 2 months too because of good behavior. He was in Egersund the time of the invasion, convinced people to go down peacefully so they are more lenient about calls.

It was only 3 but he felt tired, it's draining to fight his own people he concluded. His feet somehow found their way to his room and he just laid on the bed in a haze. The meeting was still going on and he knew he should be there, listening or talking or something. Yet sleep tugged at his eyes and he rolled to the side, the last question all but forgotten.

His long legs curling into him, still fully clothes with black oiled boots on, he let the sadness reach his eyes and warm the usually cold cataract like sheen on them. When he inhaled the sheets, the faint smell of coffee and salmiakki enveloped him. It smelled of Finland.

Eyes open, staring at the black walls, he let his memories play like movies in the dark room. He saw his quiet companion and him laying together after some battle during the Finnish War. The few peace days after escaping Denmark's house, the bastard had even said goodbye when they left, so why did he declare war later?

No. He chided himself from hysteria by picturing the turquoise color of the Fin's eyes and the soft yellow of his hair. God did he miss him. A few tears slipped from his less than contently closing eyes. Time ceased to exist while he rested numbly on the bed. A cheek nuzzled into the soft mattress and he felt the ghost of Tino hands running through his hair like he did sometimes. The fingertips always slightly stained with gunpowder and calloused ever so slightly from the burns.

His mind drifted aimlessly, and his mind supplied a memory of his Austrian friend from only a few years past. A world meeting where something was achieved and last meeting before Germany got squirmy and tense. Under the table, his hand was intertwined with Tino who was still flushed from the affection but said nothing. It was lunch time, but most of the countries were sick from the depression and catalyst, lanky early teenage America looked miserable and pale.

The Nordics were no worse for wear, a small Iceland clung to Denmark who happily halved his sandwich and offered it to his dependent.

With half-lidded eyes in 1941, Sweden recalled how Denmark gave the other half to Norway, the stubborn brother who had forgotten his own lunch. He didn't have to, Sweden thought dumbly, why did he?

But Austria, he looked both fine and awful. He was slumped over with his face resting on the table as Hungary pressed a kiss to his temple. She was kneeled next to him, an empathetic look in her eyes as they exchanged words. Prussia hovered sheepishly nearby but remained close-lipped. Eventually, Austria's piano fingers waved her off dismissively and she beamed despite herself. Her hand slipped into Prussia's and they left the room, chatting excitedly about something as they walked to away. He had watched the scene from the corner of his eye and mulled over the sight before speaking.

He had asked Tino why Austria looked distraught. His friend only shrugged and eyed the European with concern. He was always concerned for others, one of the reasons why he loved the Fin so much. Denmark spoke up, however. It turns out, it was a cat giving him so much trouble. More specifically, Austria physicist, Schrodinger's cat.

Denmark looked on with relatable sympathy for perplexed Austria and they all winced at the memory of the Bohr incident. A week of the Danish country holing himself in his house trying to make a model of an atom with no avail. He remembered how Dane got up and whispered something to the musically inclined nation. Whatever it was, it made them both laugh and broke the cycle of tantalizing thoughts for Roderich.

He closed his eyes fully and the movie stopped. It stopped with the echoes of the 2-nation's laughter and Finland's hands squeezing his with a lopsided smile that told a thousand words. If he closed his eyes, he theorized with the lull of nostalgia, then it couldn't be proved that Finland wasn't next to him. He was both there and no there.

The darkness of sleep pulled him like the waves in the Gulf of Bothnia. If he could pretend Finland was there, even for a delusional second, he would be ok.

* * *

It had been quite some time since his last kerfuffle with his boss. Both acted like the Swedish gentlemen they were, passive-aggressive side eyes and snide comments that made the others muffled their surprise with dignified coughs.

In the meantime, his country trudged on with the so-called neutrality. His bosses were in bed with the Nazi's and he only buried his head in a book as much as he could. He could glower and disapprove as much as he wanted, nothing was going change.

He sat back and watched the world burn around him, the flames licking the land and reflecting from his glasses. That was until he received word about Finland.

A familiar action, armchair at 6:30 AM sharp. The paper in one hand, coffee in the other. His eyes lazily skimming the page until they widened with shock. Heart pounding, liquid staining the carpet as he reached a phone.

The line rang, one, two, three-time before Finland picked up.

"Hello?" He sounded tired and Berwald suddenly couldn't breathe.

How could he, how could his still be the same man he loved. The one who he fought with in the Winter War, ran away with him that summer in 1523.

God, he thought as the received warmed up in his hands and a distant voice rang in his ear, was it that long ago?

"Hello, who is this?"  
"Hey, Tino." He finally said and listened to the gunfire in the background. He could have sworn he heard his friend smile.

"Berwald," He said with a breathless chuckle. "Its been a while since you've called. I-I've missed you so mu- "

"How could ya?"

The newspaper crumbling into the wad in his now white-knuckle grip as his blue eyes squeezed closed so tears couldn't fall. His own words reverberated in his mind. How could Finland do this, after all that had happened, how could he side with the Nazis?

"…Its war Sweden," The smaller nation was smart not to try to use human names. "I had too. My people are dying, we needed help."

"I coulda helped you. I was here for the Winter War and I would 'ave been there again."

Finland laughed mirthlessly into the speaker and the voice tickled his ear. Oh, how he used to love that sound.

"Your bosses…they'd never let you and your people fight, you know that."

"Christian still couldn't stop Matthias." And the sharp inhale on the other end was proof that he had hit the Fin where it hurt.

Something told him to stop, however, a small voice in his head was quietly begging him to show mercy. It sounds like Denmark, that only made his misplaced anger grow. He couldn't help anyone, not Norway, not Finland, couldn't stop the Nazi's from interfering with his politics and morals. And now, this was the final straw.

"Berwa-"

"They helped you too. Lukas and Matthias, your brothers." The other end was silent, so he continued his tirade. "Does the battle of Honkaniemi sound familiar? Damn it, Tino, why are ya even at war right now?! The Winter War's over, Moscow treaty and all that, just stop!"

His shaky breaths echoed through the empty hallway he was in and was the only sound passing through the phone. Just stop. God, why couldn't any of them just stop? Stop fighting, stop capturing, stop invading, stop asking for help, just stop.

"I've got some volunteers, I'll send them out."

And before anyone could protest, hung up. His tall body leaning into the wall, sliding further down until his knees were at his chin. A strangled sob was forming at the lump in his throat. The phone rang, once, twice, three times before he yanked the curled core from the wall.

He cried for his brother's pain, his lover's dilemma and his people who were at a loss as to what to do. But he sobbed with fervor because deep down, he knew he was no better than any of them. Not Finland or even the Nazis. He had let the bastard trudge through his land's after all.

Soon his self-pity came to a mind numb end in the empty hallway as the clock struck 8. His breathing slowed as his eyes glassed over, once again lost in thought.

When the sun finally peeked into the window, he inhaled steadily, brushed off the dust and shame, and walked off. He was done with the war, but the war wasn't done with him. Still, he couldn't bring himself to care anymore. Instead, he'd just buried his pride and head in the sand, waiting until the dust settled. Too bad it didn't work like that, you can't just hang up on a war. Pull the cord when the excessive sound of responsibility and telephone trills becomes too much.

He couldn't, not when the Danish Jews were the incoming call.

* * *

It was 1943 when Denmark reached out. Quietly, in a formal telegram, he asked for a bit of Sweden's time. Nearly 3 years since radio silence, the letter caused panic to flourish inside of him. He was purposeful in not telling the others, not until he knew everything.

When the day came, he was surprisingly calm, almost in denial that the Dane would even show up. Because no one heard from him in so long, it was so futile in trying to reach him.

So, when on 11:30 on the dot the doorbell rang, he was surprised, Denmark was never on time, usually drunk with a long story that was startling true if he took the time to check all the facts.

He wasn't expecting it to really be Denmark when he opened the door. Maybe the Danish king or even Germany if his imagination ran wild. No, he didn't except his childish older brother to be leaning against the door jam, a smirk still presents on his pale face and his coat barely hanging on his frail body.

"Hey, bro." He said with his annoying accent still strong, albeit a little hoarse.

He stared only a second longer before closing the space between them. He wrapped his arms around his brother before the image of the Dane could disappear again. He felt how the man stiffed before shaking out the tense nerves with a shudder. Cold hands pressed into his back as Denmark hugged him back. But the moment Sweden clung on a bit tighter, he couldn't help it, a hiss was coaxed out of the injured nation.

The Swede let it go and led him inside. Matthias tried and failed, to hide the way he shifted around to try to reduce the pain. Sweden kept half an eye on him from the kitchen where he prepared tea.

"I thought you'd be healed by now."

Denmark only gave a distant smile and shrugged, the truth was written all over his face, however.

He saw how quiet his brother was as he rested on a chair, silently sighing from deep within his creaking bones. The kettle boiled and snapped him from his thoughts. He poured the tea and relished in the smell of steamed mountain water.

"Got any mead?" Matthias called from his seat, a small but genuine smile reached his eyes making them crinkled in the corner.

'It's not even noon yet." He replied dryly but it made a familiar sound of laughter from Denmark. It was so soft though, not the full body tremor he was used to hearing. It was damn near haunting.

"Never hurts to ask Ber."

They talked for a while. Narrowly avoid a meltdown about Norway and discussed business. And then the Jews. He felt the change before they talked about it. He felt the heaviness of people coming in mass waves, and he saw how Denmark coughed a shining fleck of blood into his dark coat sleeve.

Then he begged. He pleaded and looked at him with exasperated and terrified eyes that swirled with life and movement, his people were doing something back home. And finally, the older Viking shuddered and collapsed, not yet weeping, just begging.

Its scared the Swede too, never having really seen this weakness in his brother. Every fight that ended in his own victory, ended with his brother flat on his back, a bloody smile etched in his features and slow breaths. None of the Nordics had ever seen him like this.

Nails indented divots his arms as Matthias tried to stand up on jelly-like legs. Still pleading with a hopeless tune. The wounds reopened, and Sweden could only let them both fall to the floor. The Dane's head resting in his lap as Danish Jews sought refuge in his lands. He'd learned later that the resistance riot took place that day, it ended with 3 deaths and 18 wounded. And so many scared people fleeing into his lands. He could feel them as his skin danced with trickles of a sweat and a pinprick pain, a small physical embodiment of the migrants.

Berwald held on, knowing it would be the last time for a while. Blood was running and pooling under with very sharp breath Matthias took. His dry mouth was moving with silence words, a Danish prayer and a small bit of blood leaked out as well.

"Jeg er bange. Få det til at stoppe." _I'm afraid. Make it stop_ He croaked as the Swede shushed him, the pad of his thumbs brushing against his red but surprisingly dry cheek. His eyes, the great North Sea colored eye were hazy with foam and flickering around looking for purchase.

But Berwald held him closer like he'd disappear if he didn't. Never mind the blood and cold sweat that left him slick and clammy, he just wanted his big brother, the same one who took care of him as a child and the one he spent so long fighting.

"Det kommer bli bra. Det skal nok gå."

That seemed too placid Matthias a bit, a weak smile was on his face before he groaned in pain and his eyes fluttered closed.

The room was quiet after he passed out. It was strange, he thought as the smell of iron and tea wafted about, strange how quietly loud he struggled. How strange that the soft sounds of his coat shifted as he squirmed with pain, the panting noise of his breaths and the thumping of Sweden's own heart could produce such white noise.

He felt the despair of foreigners in his land, it was a sympathy pain though, nothing compared to how a nation would feel when their people were hurting. He was the floor a moment longer before getting up. He moved autonomously really, couldn't recall the anything after it happened. Somehow, he trekked back to Copenhagen without anyone seeing him. It was a quick trip, walking through mostly dense forests or desolate roads. The German occupants were busy with the protest at the time.

He walked with Matthias on his back, passed out and blood dripping through his nose and onto his shoulder sometimes. Most of his other wounds were redressed and cleaned to though.

It was just the king and one other man there to greet them when he reached the outskirts. He bowed his head in respect for his sibling's boss and deposited the body to the solider. He was so numb to anything by then. Nothing fazed him, not the blood on him, not the cold and not the aching lump in his throat that formed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice told him that the Danish government was no more, that's why things were so bad. It sounded like Tino.

"Tack _thanks_ , my country and I owe a great debt to you." He said graciously and bowed, his eyes were red, and his face seemed to have aged 50 years since he'd last seen him.

He wanted to scream, emotions rushing back in ten-folds. But he just swallowed and walked back the way he came. The stupid Dane and his stupid problem and stupid stubborn will.

The walk up was longer than the way down, maybe because the urgency was gone, maybe because he was too busy irately thinking to walk straight. All the wars, the fighting for independence and his asinine rules in the Kalmar Union; all of it lead up to this.

He stomped around the rocky shores and no one dared to question why and where he went. The hate boiled behind his eyes, marring them with fire and fury. The mask of hate crackled and crumbled in his flames and revealed the wallowing sadness he truly felt.

Because why did he have to be like that? Sweden was flushed and ready to pull his hair out from frustration instead of crying. He didn't want to cry, not over someone like Denmark.

The nation who didn't understand the meaning of the word 'no' or 'surrender'. The one who dug himself into this mess by not listening to his King, the calm pleasant man who just lost his government to the Nazis. Matthias could have been ok, not bleeding out on his coffee-stained carpet or begging on bruised knees like a prisoner of war.

The love and hate swirled into a war in his mind. By God Berwald was so sick of war. The mere thought was nauseating and made him gag as his head spun like a top. He hated that he cared, and he hated that his government didn't care, though he was too dizzy to decipher whether it's because he envy's their apathy or thinks them as cold and emotionless swine.

Shouting won't solve anything, but he wants to feel his throat burn raw. He wants to fight, a reoccurring notion that makes him think of the 2 months campaign in Norway now too, the longest campaign yet. The way his brother resigned before his people, didn't he want to fight? Did Finland fight?

A stray hand flew out and books went flying. He blinked back a second, when did he get to his room? But he took no time to disregard the notion. Instead, he focused on his hand now stung. The pain throbbing a bit, but he didn't mind it, he welcomed it. Anything to distract the ache in his heart. Soon everything was overturned, destroyed and tattered. But he doesn't feel better, not one bit.

Why couldn't he go in there, Norway and Denmark, blazing with battle cries and his abundance of weaponry? Why couldn't they stop supplying iron to the Third Reich, a huge finger to the lunatic forces? Why couldn't anyone see how this war was tearing him apart at the seams? He hated Denmark, but now he loves him? Neutrality was such a good idea, wasn't it? Did Finland do the right thing by going to the Nazis for help instead of him?

He buried his head in hands, layered dirt and blood now. His body feels hot, probably the influx of migrants a voice tells him, and his head just pounds. Knuckles rap at his door and he threw a picture frame at the door. He heard the muffled gasp and retreating footsteps.

The phone rang, and he shouts something old and Norse at the metal spin dial on the nightstand, one of the few things still standing. The words are heavy on his tongue and he's pretty sure no one understood anyway. He's too old, too out of touch with the world.

He thinks of young Germany all giddy for war, not too different for the Nordic when they were young. All the pillaging and destruction they caused. Blood stains on his history and the sins of the past. Once upon a time, it was all just a game really, they were all once so young. He just thinks of his childhood and how they all ended up like this. His big brother with holes in his chest, a younger brother with his people in camps and his wife too far away. The only saving grace was Iceland being with allies, contact was cut off, but he was reassured by America that the younger territory was safe.

Another ring and he picked up, emotions falling and rising like riptides.

"H-Hey Mr. Swede, I didn't think you'd answer."

He doesn't reply, only replays the tried but dejected voice over and over until the silence is too prolonged.

"Su-sun? Are you there?"

Finland sounds worried, he concluded numbly. However, he can't bring himself to reply just yet. Instead, a strangled sob was let out as he sighed shakily.

"Hey, Fin."

He out of energy to fight, to talk even. He wants something to break, to be utterly destroyed. So, he breakdown over the phone, shattered into a million fragment but that's ok, Tino there to pick up the pieces. Because when everything around you collapses, it's only natural for you to follow suit. And this time the whole world was crumbling, Berwald included.


	3. Sweden (Complete)

"Quit sulking in the doorway Ber, that just creepy."

A frown etched its way into Berwald's stony face as he hesitantly stepped closer. Nothing was really changed, he noted briefly before looming over the bed, taking notice of every blood streak and papery vein. Iceland has joined Denmark on the bed. The two Nordic nations were snuggled closer as Ice let out a shuddering breath in his sleep.

Norway's eyes flickered from the book and then to the sleeping pair on the bed and finally to Sweden.

"He cried when you left," Norway spoke but his eyes never left the pages. "And not just because he wanted you to stay. His king didn't like the failure either."

"He's a sore loser, we all know that," Sweden replied dully but Norway shot daggers before relaxing his expression to neutrality.

"He annoying, that's for sure but don't undermine his pain like that. You weren't there Berwald, he- we- never wanted to go to war."

Sweden swallowed his defensive retort and instead looked down guiltily. He has forgotten that Norway and Denmark were once together, he technically fought both of them.

"Then why did he?" Berwald huffed back, hoping he could stun Lucas long enough to leave.

"We all have orders to follow." Norway got a glazed look of nostalgia in his eyes as he spoke. "It was all a game to him, he just wanted you to be happy. But don't forget that he was supposed to be a country before our brother."

"Supposed?" Sweden echoed back as Norway let out a chuckle, his thumb rubbing back and forth over Denmark's hand.

"Well, when he's feeling idiotic and brotherly, this happens."

Both of they let their gaze linger over Denmark, the wild enigma of a country. A stillness fell over the room and the tension disbursed into a softer ambiance.

"Do you remember," Sweden started, not really sure of the point of his words. "when that battle in 1660 something? I marched across the ice and beat up Denmark."

Norway smiled softly and Sweden took notice of the patchy yellow bruise around Norway's eye.

"Yeah, it was 1658 actually. Why do you ask?"

"I beat him up and then he gave me a smile and a thumbs up."

"...Sounds about accurate."

"Why?"

It sounds sadder than Berwald meant and he felt tear welling in his eyes. All the anger and pain he's hung onto too with vigor, all the time he wasted being upset, it made him so incredibly sad he could barely stand it.

Norway let out a sigh and his bones creaked in protest. He closed the book softly, unable to multitask reading and a heavy conversation.

"Why did Germany go to war? Duty? Obligation? I doubt any of us will know but we all know that he's too apathetic to care about who's Jewish and who's not. And Denmark, he loves all of us to hold on longer than he needs too. But yet he spent too many years at war with all us. I think the Kalmar Union was his last-ditch attempt to appease us and his government." Norway paused and his far-off look turned to Denmark, ever oblivious and still sound asleep. "I know good intentions don't always justify bad deeds, but you're disservice yourself by holding on this.

The room echoed with Lucas's departing footsteps and was rhythmic with the two sets of soft breathing. He took the seat where Norway was before shaking Denmark awake.

"Hey Swede, s'up?" Denmark's words were thick with sleep clinging to his vocal cords as he looked up with hazy eyes.

"Do you hate me, Matthias?"

Denmark blinked at the use of his name but rolled on.

"Of course not."

"Even though I took Scania."

"You won that fair and square."

Blue orbs fluttered close but his breath reminded Sweden that Denmark was too tense to have fallen asleep. A moment passed. Then two.

"I used to hate you."

"...It was just business Ber, I had to go to war, you gotta know that."

"I know, that's why I don't hate you. I know that now."

"Do you forgive me?"

"Do you forgive me?"

Neither answered but the tension filtered out of both of them and out of the room completely. A familiar but sleepy grin grew on Denmark's face and Sweden mirrored it despite himself. The comfortable silence finally broke with the older nation's accented voice.

"Let's build a bridge Ber, from Copenhagen to Malmö."

"Malmö? Why not Helsingborg?"

Denmark didn't stop smiling as he whined.

"Ah c'mon Ber, it'll be a friendship bridge, we can't argue about a friendship bridge."

"You know what let's make it from Helsingør to Helsingborg ."

"But Copenhagen is my Captial!"

"Eh, just move the capital."

Denmark cracked an eye open and they both laughed a bit. Soon the exhaustion hit and Matthias relaxed into the pillow again.

"Sweden?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we be friends?"

Berwald leaned back thoughtfully. After the dust had settled in the 1600s, they were civil of course. They hadn't spent nearly 400 years in bitter resentment. There were good moments. Moments where, as countries, they were peaceful. At some point, Denmark and Sweden had good relations, the past staying in the past as the whole generations of soldiers and their family died. But he knew what the other meant, the personified nation wanted Matthias and Berwald to forgive each other, to be friends.

"Yeah." He said finally, the smile growing on his face "Yeah, we can be friends."


End file.
